


Cacophany

by LadyoftheShield



Category: Redwall Book 2- Mossflower, Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/pseuds/LadyoftheShield
Summary: Request: Martin grieves Gonff's death.





	Cacophany

When he opened his eyes, fog suffocated the Abbey like a shroud. Outside, the leaves hung lifeless from their trees. The song of the wind had died.

Down the halls, agitated murmuring echoed like the whispers in a catacomb. All at once, Martin knew that his friend had passed in the night. 

Nobeast in the Abbey could say they hadn’t anticipated it. As time passed, the Mousethief’s melodious voice corroded and his joints lost their flexibility as a well-loved instrument fades under the weight of years. Yet even as his health failed, Gonff had never ceased laughing and dancing with the Abbey’s children.

Those same children hovered outside the door, confused, as Martin and Columbine performed funeral rites. She did not cry as she washed her husband’s corpse. Martin stood by her side. In his hands, the bowl of cold water rested as steady as the back the Mousethief had once climbed. 

After wrapping the body in fine linen, she sorted through his belongings. They were sparser than Martin remembered. Odds and ends accumulated over his long career of thievery, an assortment of instruments acquired during his many adventures- and, most notably, a wide assortment of parchments sorted into drawers by type. Songs, love notes, poems (most of them for Columbine), music neither of them could read, little scribbles that held no meaning to them save the curve of his penmanship. That was when they first broke, and clung to each other as they cried together.

When he at last gave her space to grieve alone, he comforted the distraught Dibbuns and finished the story the Mousethief had begun the night before. Gonflet was long grown with his own son, but for a moment he allowed himself to be a child again and cried in Martin’s arms.

Once the young were in bed and the sun had dipped into the Dark Forest to play with her thief, the grown went to their work. Gonff had wanted to rest in the green of Mossflower, amongst the flora of his beloved forest where he would always hear the song of the wind. Martin bore the pall, along with Bella, Gonflet, Skipper Mayberry, Coggs and Lady Amber. Few others of the Corim remained.

Once they had planted Gonff into the earth, they lingered at the site a bit longer. The colors were not so vibrant as he remembered, the grass harder and the scents less poignant, but away from the cold walls of the Abbey, everything felt alive. Candles burned low and hot wax dripped onto tree roots like tears as the adults shared stories and anecdotes from the Mousethief’s long life. Some stories ended in subdued but sincere laughter, others with broken syllables and choked sobs.

Slowly, people trickled back to the Abbey, with a final laugh or a sniff. Skipper Mayberry left with Catkin and Lady Amber, and Gonflet carried his mother and tiny son home.

Until Martin alone lingered at the burial site, accompanied only by a single candle.

All was silent.

“You never liked the quiet did you?”

Martin’s voice echoed in the expanse of Mossflower Wood, never reaching its intended target.

What happens to sound after it fades and goes unheard, he wondered. Does it go on forever, doomed to never fulfill its intended purpose? Or does it end as if it never mattered?

Then, a faint youthful laugh.

He raised his head, and peered out into the night. The woods were rarely silent, even this late. Bird calls and the thrum of insects sounded around him, the babbling of a nearby brook laid over the rustling of bushes.

Again the laugh sounded, and Martin relaxed when he realized it came to the south, towards the Abbey. Gonflet must have awoken.

With some effort, Martin stood, looking at the cairn marking the Prince’s resting place. It was time he returned.

The warm wind playfully nipped at his habit. Leaves danced in the air and the trees swayed to a rhythm only they could hear.

A rhythm he found his throat humming along to. Whistling wind hummed in his ears like a flute, as the babble of a distant brook and the gentle groaning of an old tree sang together in chorus.

Martin sank to his knees and let the cold earth close over his paws. Faint, but unmistakable even blended with the sounds of the forest, a flute led the other noises in chaotic harmony.

His vision blurred, and Martin wiped his eyes. “You always did say the forest sang through you.”

There was no reply but the faint, youthful laughter of Mossflower’s spirit


End file.
